


To Forgive, Divine

by rattatatosk



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Angel Wings, Excessive Space Imagery, Gen, Ineffability, Light Angst, M/M, Mostly Leftover Trauma from Falling, Possibly Some Blasphemy, Post-Canon, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Risen Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 18:20:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20157994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rattatatosk/pseuds/rattatatosk
Summary: This wasn't Before. He wasn't the angel he had been. He was himself,an angel again.He'd been-- there wasn't a word for it, was there? Redeemed, or Forgiven, or Ascended. Something. There wasn't a word for it becauseit didn't happen.But here he was anyway.





	To Forgive, Divine

After everything was said and done, Crowley does, in fact, sleep for a week.

Despite his fondness for sleep, Crowley rarely dreams. Even when he does, it's usually vague and abstract- a certain feeling, or a half-remembered sense of place from his long history. A snippet of sound or the scent of one of Aziraphale's favorite dishes. The sort of thing that fades away easily on rising, vanishing like morning dew.

This is something altogether different.

He opens his eyes to find himself floating in the dark deeps of space, the stars blazing new and bright around him, cooling trails of radiation streaking ultraviolet across the vast horizon. It takes him a long moment to recognize it. This was the Beginning, a place of endless Possibility, and he is-

There's a name singing in his heart, echoing through the core of him, an endless song resonating in harmony with the secret chords of the universe. Ever-changing but never repeating, like the infinite decimals of Pi. Of _Her. _

His Grace.

The feel of it leaves him shaking, unsteady, like he might stagger and fall to his knees, for all that he's floating, weightless. He'd forgotten. He'd forgotten what it felt like, and the sudden return of sensation to what had been a void is _painful_, all his old wounds ripped open and made new again, leaving him shivering and raw.

He's an angel. But this- this isn't a memory. He's wearing his own clothes, his sunglasses. He glances over his shoulder at his wings, unfurled behind him. They're black- the black he'd chosen from the birds he'd named himself for; clever, mischievous, _curious_ creatures with a tendency to poke at things much bigger and fiercer than themselves. But they are no longer the soft, glossy black he's so familiar with- instead they _shimmer_ with an otherworldly iridescence mere visible light couldn't hope to capture.

This isn't Before. He isn't the angel he had been. He is himself, an _angel again. _

He's been-- there isn't a word for it, is there? Redeemed, or Forgiven, or Ascended. _Something._ There isn't a word for it because _it doesn't happen._

_Unforgiveable, that's what I am_, he'd told Aziraphale._ I won't ever be forgiven, not ever._

But here he is anyway.

As the realization creeps over him, the understanding of what happened, he can feel a Presence there, between the stars. Watching him. Waiting. Expectant.

There's a ripple in the darkness, something deeper than sound. It vibrates through him at the molecular level, carrying meaning. It says a name.

“_NO,” _he spits out immediately, harsher than he intended, even as the name lights up his soul like a flash of lightning ripping open the sky. “_No_. That's not me, not anymore. You know that. You _did that_.” Whatever he is now-- demon, angel, something in-between, he wasn't that innocent creature from the Beginning, the one who hadn't yet learned to ask questions, whose veins didn't burn with curiosity and a desire to pick the world open to see what it was made of. That angel had died a long time ago, and Crowley had remade himself from what was left.

His voice is bitter and angry and, as the shock of what's happening wears starts to wear off, he welcomes the emotion. He _is_ angry. What is She playing at, pulling him here like this? Giving him— _this_. Forgiveness. Does She think She can just-- just _undo_ everything that happened to him, just _change him back _and he'll- what? Go back to singing hosannas with the rest of them? The thought stokes his anger even higher.

He knows this is supposed to be a reward-- an impossible boon, a gift beyond repaying. But all he can think is that it feels like a threat. There was a certain reassurance in being a demon. There was nowhere further you could Fall, no lower you could go. Hell hurt, it _always _hurt, but damnation was an ache you got used to, and eventually it faded into background noise. You knew where you stood with Hell. You could count on them to be reliably cruel. The only surprise lay in how inventive they got with the torture, and frankly they'd pretty much hit their peak in that department in the fourteenth century. Beyond that- it was only pain. What was a little more or a little less when everything hurt all the time anyway?

But to be restored to Heaven-- how could he ever believe that it wouldn't be yanked away from him again? He'd be constantly terrified, walking on eggshells, waiting to find out which toe out of line would leave him damned. _Again._

He's seen that fear in Aziraphale, the undercurrent of worry wearing away at the angel, century after century, carving an anxiety so deep that even in the face of the world ending he'd done everything he could to avoid admitting to himself the truth of what Heaven was like, because lying to himself was less painful than the threat of Falling.

Crowley will have no part of it. He has faced down all of his fears and come out triumphant, and he will not, he _will not_ be bound by them again.

She sees the doubts in him, because of course She does. She sees everything. Knows everything. Off to his left, there's a burst of color as a nebula flares to life; a shimmering of rainbow colors in the endless dark. He snorts.

“That's your offer? The same promise you made the humans? How'd that work out for them, with their near nuclear annihilation last week?”

There's a ripple in the darkness, a cosmic shrug. Not indifference, but- a sense of irrelevance. The humans _weren't_ destroyed, after all, in the end. The promise _hadn't_ been broken. Everything had worked out.

“Right. Of course,” he says, bitterly. He doesn't know why he'd expected anything else. That was Ineffability for you. The pieces would fall where they were always intended to fall, things would happen as they were meant to happen, and it would all work out as it should. He and Aziraphale working together to thwart the Apocalypse- they'd mostly been bluffing, invoking the Ineffable Plan to get Heaven and Hell to back off, but, well- here he is, so apparently it really _had_ all been going as intended-- and nevermind all the pain and terror and heartbreak that eleven years of desperate actions had left them with.

Crowley knows he's never had free will, not _really,_ but it still galls him to have his face rubbed in it this way.

“Why _now_?” he asks, although he knows why. Sees the moment where he stopped Time so he and Aziraphale could stand together for just a few stolen seconds, offering a not-quite-human child something they themselves had just discovered: a third option. A path beyond the one laid out for him.

There's another one of those shivers between the stars, something not-quite-sound, and he feels Her approval humming through him. _**Yes. You have fulfilled your role admirably. You were where you needed to be, doing what needed to be done. Now I have a new role for you.**_

And for that he needed to be- _this_, apparently. An angel.

_ Apparently it was too much to be a demon in love after all_, he thinks, resentfully. It's an old hurt, soft and well-worn, a bone-deep ache that asks: _ Why did you abandon me? Why wasn't I good enough? _

He feels a feather-light touch of reprimand brush against his mind, a mother chastising her stubborn child. _ **You are as you are. As I made you. As you needed to be.** _

There's a feeling of reassurance with the words; something that evokes the comforting touch of fingers running through his hair, the warmth of sunlight on verdant leaves. It leaves him cold, and he pulls his wings in a little tighter, keeping his defenses up. He's not ready to accept comfort from _Her_, not yet. Maybe he'll never be.

He thinks again of the Garden, and the conversation that started all of this. _Funny if we both did the wrong thing, eh? _A conversation that never should have happened, really. Demons did not walk casually up to angels and chat with them. Angels did not confess their worries and doubts to demons. They definitely didn't seek each other out, over and over again as the centuries wore on, until they became inseparable.

“The Ineffable Plan,” he mutters. Of course. Orchestrations across endless millennia, pieces moving on a thousand different planes at once, a tapestry woven from the raw fabric of space-time. He can grasp just a sliver of it. _If he'd never Fallen, he wouldn't have been the Serpent, and if he hadn't been in the Garden, he'd never have met Aziraphale, and if they hadn't met, he-_

Her reassurance echoes through him again, soft and steady. _**You are as you are. As I made you. As you needed to be.**_

And that, well-- it _ explains _ things, but it's not a comfort, not really. Maybe it _ was _ necessary that it all happened the way it did, but it still _ hurt, _and that's never going to go away. He thinks he's owed a little resentment for that.

He'd never _ wanted _ to be a demon, never intended to Fall, and yet- it's all he knows anymore. He doesn't remember who he was Before. All his experiences have been shaped by his nature as a demon. Giving that up feels like erasing some crucial piece of himself. It's like his eyes- for all that they're an uncomfortable reminder of his history, he's not sure he'd recognize himself without them.

There's a considering note in the silence. _**Do you wish to remain as you were, then?**_

“I didn't say _that_,” he snaps, too quickly.

Because he does. He does want this, or at least-- having remembered what this feels like, the harmonies of the universe singing through him, he's not sure he can bear to lose it again, even as he resents having this thrust upon him so abruptly. Just as he thought he'd gotten comfortable, that he could finally have the only thing he'd ever really wanted-

(freedom)

-now he stands on the edge of an impossible sea change, and he's not sure he can trust himself to those currents, not knowing where they'll take him. He should have faith, of course, but... well. If he'd been any good at blind trust, he'd never have been so inclined to asking questions.

Now, the only trust he has is for himself, and Aziraphale, and the bond between them. _Our side_, forged in hellfire and holy water and sixty centuries of understanding each other when no one else would.

He can't make this decision on faith, can't make that leap. This still feels like a cruel manipulation to him, giving him an impossible gift, knowing he won't refuse it. Millennia-old instincts warn him _there must be a catch somewhere, there must be_. So instead he tries to step back, to really consider what it will mean, accepting this.

In terms of _sides_, it hardly matters. The failed Apocalypse made that extremely clear. Heaven and Hell are focused on their rivalry, not any substantive differences between them. Maybe that will change—who can say when Ineffability is involved?-- or maybe they _will _all end up fighting together against humanity. Either way, it's not like Crowley's allegiances are going to change. He chose Aziraphale and Earth. She knows that, so he can't imagine She's really asking him to become a real agent of Heaven again. Which is just as well-- he tries to imagine spending more time in Heaven and grimaces at the thought; the empty, sterile, endless white of it. His quick trip Upstairs as Aziraphale had been more than enough to make him sick of it, all over again. Hell was horrific, true, but at least it was never _boring._

Of course, given all the trouble he and Aziraphale had caused, it isn't entirely outside the realm of possibility that the Archangels might try their own hand at treachery. Their trick of switching places had bought them some time-- it'll probably take at least a few centuries for all the committee meetings and paperwork to settle down, for blame to be neatly divided and apportioned, for new plans to be made. Maybe longer. But once Heaven and Hell do sort themselves out, if they decide to come for them--

All things considered, if he or Aziraphale are going to be attacked or discorporated, he rather thinks he'd prefer to gamble on Heaven's Gordian Knot of bureaucracy than Hell's supply of mercy. Especially if he has the ace of very literal Divine Forgiveness up his sleeve.

And it _would_ be rather satisfying to be able to properly smite his old bosses, at that.

There's a faint shimmering among the distant starscape, an impression of satisfaction- with just a hint of smugness? She seems to recognize he's come to a decision.

_ **You accept?** _

“Yes, fine, I accept,” he says, sighing. It's not as if he ever _really_ had a choice; She'd already known the outcome when She brought him here, but he does appreciate being given the appearance of options, at least.

_**There is one thing more.** _

In the darkness, a sound chimes; crystal clear notes that reverberate through him; falling end over end in a smooth sussurus of sound, and the faintest hum buzzing beneath it, a discordant counterpoint.

_Shaaltiel_

It's not the name he had before, but something new, and it carries with it the sense of an open hand, freely outstretched. _**You wanted a promise. **_He doesn't have to wear this name, but it's his if he chooses- a name that describes him as he is, as he always intends to be.

Crowley snickers softly, mouth quirking up in a wry smile.

“Yeah, alright. That- that I can answer to.” He still likes Crowley, the name he chose, the identity he built for himself, but this- this fits too. He thinks, just maybe, there's enough space to wear them together, like Aziraphale's layers of clothes: past and present, co-existing.

“I'm not going to be like the rest of them, you know,” he warns. “Maybe I never had free will exactly, but I learned enough tricks from the humans, and I'm not- I can't- _I won't_ give that up.”

The dark smiles at him. _**You do not have to.**_

* * *

He wakes in his own bed. It's mid-morning, by the light angling through the blinds. Aziraphale likely won't have opened the shop yet, or if he has, he won't mind closing it again.

He levers himself out of bed and miracles himself an outfit with a snap of his fingers. Another snap and his mobile's in hand. It dials Aziraphale's number as he checks his hair in the mirror, combing the strands so they stick up at just the right angle. His eyes are golden and round. He considers them for a long moment before blinking once, and the pupils constrict back to their usual slits. His sunglasses are already in his other hand; he slips them on in a single smooth motion.

There's a click on the other end as Aziraphale picks up, and Crowley smiles at his voice.

“Hey, angel,” he says, “Let's do lunch. We need to talk about aardvarks.”

**Author's Note:**

> This started mostly because I'm not fond of the idea that black wings are a specifically demonic thing; Gaiman mentioned on his blog that Crowley's wings are black because he likes them that way, and I'm a fan of that idea. So I I wanted to write something where Crowley becomes an angel again, but generally keeps his appearance, because a big transformation felt too much like erasing the ability to choose that Crowley values so much. It became sort of a character study/thought exercise: I don't think Crowley really *wants* Forgiveness, so it was an interesting challenge to figure out under which conditions he'd accept it.
> 
> Shaaltiel means “I questioned/asked God.” Thanks to orovet on Tumblr for checking the Hebrew translation!
> 
> (Also, Angel!Crowley definitely still transforms into a snake, but [he looks like this instead.](https://unicornempire.tumblr.com/post/186986268569/wow-okay-thats-amazing))


End file.
